


The Pandora Incident

by abstractconcept



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Humor, Implied sex with an inanimate object, M/M, Post-Deathly Hallows, snarody, snarry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-04
Updated: 2016-10-04
Packaged: 2018-08-19 13:44:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,753
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8210705
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/abstractconcept/pseuds/abstractconcept
Summary: When Snape is thrown from his body, he takes refuge in an unlikely place, and it’s up to Harry to set things right again.Note: Still importing! :)





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [adele_sparks](https://archiveofourown.org/users/adele_sparks/gifts).



> BETAS and BUILDERS: loupgarou1750 and andreth_47 and cormallen, with great dollops of help from the lovely xanphibian as well.  
> NOTES: My first Post-DH Snarry! Written as a birthday gift for adele_sparks, because I luuuurve her, and also the rest of you celebrating birthdays this month. You guys are fabulous!

Everything was very sombre. Well, Harry reckoned it was supposed to be that way—it was, after all, a grave. There was a crypt with a statue and it would be rather inappropriate if the place were choked with daisies or covered with rainbow decals or something. Still, Harry couldn’t help but feel a bit nervous.

He should have visited earlier, but with one thing and another, having kids and all that, then the divorce, messy and painful...he really hadn’t had a moment to come back here and pay his private last respects.

The door to the crypt was solid marble, but it swung inward with a touch of his wand. He spared a smile for the bit of wood. “Yep; still got it,” he said.

He cleared his throat, straightened his jacket a bit and tried to smooth his hair down. _Dear God, Potter; he’s twenty years dead and he doesn’t give a damn about your messy hair anymore. He’d call you arrogant, you know._ Harry smiled softly at the thought. _I’d kind of welcome hearing it._

He took a deep breath and descended the stairs. The black marble plinth gleamed as the open door sent ribbons of light over the stone. It shone like silk, unlike Snape’s hair, which was still as greasy as ever. Harry uncorked a flask he’d carried with him and toasted the Potions master silently. He leant in over the glass case, shaking his head a little in bemusement.

“A freaking glass tomb,” he said wonderingly. “Who did you think you were? Lenin? Snow White?” Harry’s smile faded a little as he gazed down at that pale face, unchanged even after so many years. “I guess we’ll never know now, will we?”

“Because research is _so_ tedious and there are _so_ many Snitches to be caught,” Snape’s snide voice replied.

Harry dropped his whisky. “Damn!” he swore as the flask tumbled and the liquor sloshed over his loafers. “Now when I go to pick the kids up, Ginny’s going to think I’m turning into a lush because she left me.” He looked at his shoes. He was hearing voices—Snape’s voice. Maybe he _was_ turning into a lush.

“Good Gods; spare me the revolting details of the inner workings of your love life,” Snape moaned. “Either that or put me out of my misery.”

“Er, I sort of thought you already _were_ ,” Harry replied, casting a cleaning spell on his shoes. After a moment he had a sudden realization and his head jerked up. “You talked!” he said in an accusing voice. The pale face remained unchanged. Snape looked stern and frozen, and certainly not as though he’d just been having a bit of a chat. Maybe George had been setting prank hexes or something?

“I see you’ve been keeping up as well as might be expected from a semi-literate, self-congratulatory dimwit. Now get me out of here.”

Harry was absolutely horrified. “Get you out? How? Just . . . like . . . break the glass, throw you over my shoulders and do a runner? If Hagrid catches me he’ll think I’ve come down with necrophilia or something!”

“Don’t be stupid. You can start by removing the glass. _Don’t_ break it!” Snape cautioned. “I’ve already got two great gaping wounds in my neck, I’m not looking for further maiming, thank you.”

“Right. Right. Banishing spells. Those are easy. I can do that.”

“You’re blathering. Get on with it.”

Still completely at sea and rather panicked, Harry banished the glass. “There. Well. It’s certainly better, isn’t it?” he said, his voice creeping up a notch higher with every word. “I mean, it’s a stuffy old tomb, quite right you’d want a bit of air circulating. I always did think you could do with a bit of fresh air. I expect you’ll rest _much_ more peacefully now.”

“Stop being an _idiot!_ ” the man’s voice snapped.

“I’d try, but I reckon it’s pretty ingrained now,” Harry replied in a distracted voice. “Anyway, it was nice to be of service, your namesake sends his regards, I’m sure, and I’ll just be—”

“Potter! Get back in here and get me loose!”

Harry grimaced. “I have to _touch_ you?”

“With all the charms on this place, I’m sure I’m in better shape than ever. Come here and figure out how to get me out of this.”

Harry edged closer. “Out of what?”

“ _This_ , you magnificently deficient, Dark-Lord-killing sod! This thing! Whatever it is! Get me out!”

It was Snape’s voice, but it wasn’t coming from Snape’s mouth—it was coming from between his hands, which were crossed over his chest. There was a black corner of something sticking up through a couple of fingers—it looked like a box. Such a small box didn’t seem like it could contain such a deep voice, and Harry pulled it away and picked it up, turning it over and over in his hands. “Snape?” he said.

“You’re making me nauseous,” Snape said. “For God’s sake, keep me upright.”

“Er,” Harry said. “Which way is up?”

A small light blinked on, on the side of the box. “The bit with the light is the top,” Snape answered, and Harry righted it.

“How did you fit in there? Did you fold yourself up or use a shrinking solution or something? Where’s the lid?”

“Don’t pry like that; your fingernails hurt, digging in that way,” Snape said sullenly. “And no, I didn’t shrink myself. Not exactly.”

Harry carried the thing as he paced around the room, trying to think what to do. “I built you the biggest, gaudiest, gothest tomb money could buy, and you prefer to go round in a jewellry box? That’s gratitude for you.”

“I could tell you a thing or two about ingratitude,” Snape replied coldly.

Harry looked away. He could see Snape’s body on the dais. It was very, very still. It became painfully obvious to him that Snape was no longer in it. Snape was in the box. What was left of him, anyway. “We—we have to get you back inside your body!” Harry said, panicked. He ran over and, after thinking a couple of moments, set the box lightly on Snape’s chest. “Can’t you get back in?”

“I . . . don’t know how,” Snape admitted.

“Well, how did you get inside the box in the first place?” Harry asked reasonably. “Can’t you get out the same way you got in?”

“I don’t think there was ever a conscious decision on my part,” Snape answered. “I don’t remember much right after the battle, you know. Just Draco coming along and he’d found a box—God knows where he got it; it just turned up. And you know Malfoy, full of unexpected depths, though normally they’re the kind you squelch through in swamps and get mired in. But this time, he managed to do something right. Somewhat. He didn’t tell you?”

“No,” Harry said hoarsely. “We don’t talk much.”

“He comes back every so often with a new spell or idea. It seems a bit hopeless, when you think about it.”

“Oh, it’s not so bad,” Harry said in a chipper voice, patting the thing and lifting it up to smile at it face to—well—face.

He could almost somehow _feel_ Snape’s scowl. “Thank you,” the man replied dryly. “Please refrain from jerking me about unnecessarily, and don’t drop me. What a hellish life: all that only to be stuck in a box twenty years and then fumbled by Potter. Every time I think it can’t get worse . . .”

“Things could always be worse. There could be snakes in here with us,” Harry said cheerfully.

“Ah, yes, there it is; that Gryffindor sensitivity and compassion I’ve come to know so well.”

“Well, perhaps Hermione will know what to do. Why don’t we pay her a visit, eh?” He expected a rant about know-it-alls and how Harry never did his own work, but Snape did not remark.

Instead, sounding subdued, Snape agreed. “That would probably be for the best.” While Harry stood, so surprised he almost forgot what he was doing, Snape seemed to be gazing at himself. “I hate seeing myself like this,” Snape commented. “I look so terribly vulnerable.”

“You can see in there?” Harry asked.

“I seem to be able to. There are all these levers and buttons and controls and wires and things. And there seems to be a quite decent video feed.”

“Huh,” Harry remarked, puzzled. “What a very strange device. I wonder where it came from? It’s so . . . unrelentingly Muggle.”

“Yes. At least it seems easy to operate and understand.”

“Yes. Well. Let’s head out to see Hermione, shall we?”

Snape sighed, and with a certain lack of enthusiasm said, “Lead the way.”

Harry, on the other hand, was brimming with excitement. Lately it seemed like his life had been going all wrong; fights with his ex-wife, tension with the in-laws, an unsatisfactory job—things changed when you stopped being a hero. Now he had another shot at doing something worthwhile, something new and unusual, as well. A grand mystery waiting to be solved, a life-or-death—well, possibly, depending on whether or not Snape was dead—situation in his hands.

He smiled a little. “What do you know? I’ve got a Snape-in-the-box,” he said.

“Potter, you will do me the favour of _never_ repeating that again.”

“What, Snape-in-the-box?”

“Potter!”

“Well, what are you going to do about it? Eh? Blink your light at me?”

“Potter, shut your tedious mouth!”

“All right, all right,” Harry said, carrying Snape up the stairs and into the sunlight. “I was only joking, anyway.” Still, he couldn’t help but feel a bit cheered. He’d always wanted to sit down with Snape and have a talk about things, and now it looked as though he’d have the chance. Plus, he loved a challenge, and the idea of being faced with a new magical device was downright exhilarating.

All right. So it wasn’t a Hallow or a Horcrux or a Mirror of Erised or any kind of fabulous treasure. But it was a start, anyway.

 

OoOoOoOoO

“I’ve never seen anything _like_ it, but it’s _brilliant_ ,” Hermione enthused, running her fingertips over the edges of the box. “It’s a perfect blend of magic and technology. I didn’t even think such a thing could be done. I don’t imagine there were ever more than a handful of wizards clever enough to have come up with it.”

“That rules out Draco, then,” Harry replied.

“I wouldn’t cast stones, were I you,” Snape replied in a rather snide voice. “He had the presence of mind to go looking for me and actually _do_ something. _You_ would have been content to leave me for the buzzards.”

“Oh, they eat their own, do they?” Harry shot back, nettled enough that he forgot his debt to the man. “I did have other things on my mind, you know.”

“Right, yes; had to go off and start manufacturing new Weasley models as soon as possible. How many did you get off that girl? Eleven? Twelve?”

“Three, and one is named after _you_ , you know,” Harry snarled.

“Dear Gods! A thing I wouldn’t have wished on my worst enemy. It was hardly a blessing or boon in _my_ life, you know. Why you’d be so stupid as to saddle your poor, presumably nearsighted offspring with it is more than I can—”

“I’m trying to think, if the two of you don’t mind,” Hermione interrupted. The men fell silent. “So . . . we don’t know how Draco got you in the box or where it came from. Did he do anything to your body?”

“Just what are you insinuating?”

“I assume you want to get back into your body. That’s why he kept the box near it rather than bringing it home?”

“Oh, that. Yes. He cast a Stasis Spell on my corpse, keeping it frozen in time until I can return to it.”

“A Stasis Spell! That’s really very clever!” Hermione remarked. “And how useful!”

Harry sniffed. “Possibly the first useful thing Draco’s ever done,” he said darkly.

Snape hummed in something like agreement. “Yes, Draco’s terribly useful provided you’re already dead.”

“What spells has he tried?”

“You know . . . I can’t for the life of me remember a single one,” Snape said, sounding just a trifle surprised.

“But you remember him performing spells? You remember him visiting? How long is it, generally, between his visits?” Hermione asked.

“I’m uncertain. I do remember him visiting any number of times, but no time at all seems to pass between his visits. It’s almost as though I fall asleep when I’m alone—or as though I lose consciousness—or I simply cease to exist.”

Harry shivered.

“That’s possible,” Hermione said slowly. “We know death can never be truly defeated. We also know that part of the soul can live on in some form.”

“Like a Horcrux?” Harry demanded, a thrill of fear running through him. “You mean Snape’s a Horcrux?” _Not that! Please, not that,_ he prayed. _I’ve had enough of those to last me a lifetime. And I couldn’t deal with having to destroy him—good God, after all he’s been through already. . ._

“I’m afraid I don’t know,” Hermione admitted. “I just don’t have enough information at my disposal.”

Harry’s shoulders sagged. “Great. So, what do we do next?”

Hermione shrugged. “I think the best thing to do is speak with Draco.”

Dropping his head in his hands, Harry sighed. “Better and better.” There was a sudden high-pitched noise, and he and Hermione jolted.

“What’s that?”

“My watch,” Harry groaned. He pulled out the battered old timepiece and popped it open. “Bloody hell! I’m late picking up the kids! Ginny will have a fit!” He leapt to his feet and legged it to the Floo.

Hermione looked startled. “What about Draco? What about Snape?”

“Here, throw him to me,” Harry ordered, and Hermione obeyed, causing Snape to emit an undignified yelp and a torrent of swearing. “I can’t possibly do it tonight. I’ll meet you at the Manor tomorrow noon, all right?”

“Oh . . . all right,” Hermione said, clearly nonplussed.

“And you,” Harry said, holding the black cube up. “You’ll need to be quiet, all right? I only have the kids overnight, but I really don’t want to try to explain why I’m going ‘round with a boxful of Snape in my pocket. Apart from anything else, Ginny and I aren’t getting along right now and there’s a risk she’ll report you to her dad—you know he’s head of the Misuse of Muggle Artifacts Department, and I’d say you’d just about qualify at the moment.”

“You mean I’m to spend the evening with you and your brats? The entire evening?”

“Yes,” Harry replied grimly.

“Please find a way to let me die.”

“You do whinge a lot for being the bravest man I ever met,” Harry said. “Now pipe down, would you?” He grabbed a handful of Floo powder off the mantel and stepped into the fireplace.

 

OoOoOoOoO

“You’re late.”

“I’m sorry!”

Ginny had her cloak on and rather more makeup than Harry was used to seeing on her. “Well, at any rate, I’m off. I was supposed to meet a friend at the Three Broomsticks almost an _hour_ ago. Really, Harry, you can be so thoroughly inconsiderate!”

“You’re going out? Really? _With_ someone? Really a friend, or . . .” Harry tried desperately to sound casual, but was aware that he was failing miserably.

Ginny didn’t even bother to hide her scorn, rolling her eyes. “Yes. A date. I’m allowed, because we’re divorced, right? When you divorce a woman, she’s allowed to see other men. Can’t have your cake and eat it too.”

“I know that,” Harry mumbled. “Bit soon, isn’t it?”

“Don’t you _even_ try that argument on me. If, on the other hand, you’d be willing to work on things—”

“Don’t, Ginny,” Harry pleaded. “I have. I _did_. It just wasn’t—”

“I know—I know. It ‘just wasn’t working.’ Fine.”

“I really am sorry.”

“Magic words,” Ginny responded sarcastically, then turned and went through the flames.

“Well done, Romeo,” Snape said, his voice muffled from being in Harry’s pocket.

“What should I have said?”

“Some romantic drivel about how she _completes_ you and you never want her to leave, and that you want it to work,” Snape observed.

Harry was quiet a long moment. “Except I don’t think I do.”

“Pardon? I thought this was your happily ever after.”

“So did I,” Harry replied sadly. “But it’s just not that easy, is it? We did all right until the last of the kids went off to Hogwarts, but. . . .” he trailed off, shrugging, then added, “Being left in an empty house together we soon started seeing how little we had in common. And she—wants it to be over, you know? The war. She doesn’t want to talk about it. She wants to forget.”

“And you don’t? I’d think you would.”

Harry pulled the box from his pocket, feeling comforted by its solid weight in his palm. “I can’t. Not really. I mean, it’s always going to be a part of me. And she wasn’t _there,_ not the way Ron and Hermione were. It’s funny; at the time I would have given anything to keep her from being part of it, but now it kind of kills me because she doesn’t understand. She tries, I know she does, but . . .”

“Woe is me,” Snape replied dryly.

“Wow, thanks for the compassion,” Harry sniped.

“Yes, and you just knew I would be good for that, didn’t you?”

Despite himself, Harry smiled. “But you know what it’s all about, don’t you?”

“I haven’t any eyes but metaphorical ones, but I assure you I’m rolling them all the same.”

“And I was afraid death would mellow you.”

“And I was afraid death would cause me to rot and decompose. Happily, neither of these things seems to have been an issue. So you’ve really thrown your marriage away because you’re a poor, misunderstood, tragically emotional war hero?” Snape questioned.

“That and my burgeoning homosexual tendencies,” Harry replied baldly.

There was a long silence.

“You forget I was born with a stilted and malformed sense of humour and don’t find puerile quips about homosexuality amusing,” Snape eventually said in a rather cold voice.

“No, really,” Harry insisted. “And I don’t think your humour is that distorted; it’s usually just a bit sharp.”

“Dad? Who are you talking to?”

Harry whipped his hands behind his back. “Oh, no one. Just blathering to myself. Feeling a bit batty tonight, you know. Have you got your things together? Last big weekend with me before the holidays are over,” he said.

Albus Severus looked suspicious. “What have you got behind your back?”

“Nargles,” Harry replied instantly.

“Really?”

“Oh, yes. Gobs of them. You’ve no idea.”

“Dad! Stop joking! You’re _not_ funny.”

“Can I help it that you’re gullible?” Harry replied. “Go and get your brother and sister and tell them to shake a leg, would you?” The boy left the room and Harry let out a relieved breath. “That was close.”

“Good to know your offspring is quite in keeping with the general Potter intellect,” Snape replied.

“Oh, push off,” Harry replied. “He’s your namesake, you know.”

“Lucky me.”

 

OoOoOoOoO

“So,” Harry said after he’d finally got the children to bed. “What’s it like?” He poured himself a glass of firewhisky and set Snape beside the decanter.

“Which bit? Being dead? Being an un-mourned, unknown, uncelebrated martyr? Being . . . a . . . _box_?” Snape replied, enunciating the last particularly.

“You weren’t un-mourned. And I told everyone what you did.”

“Oh, _hurrah_.”

Harry grinned, flopping down on the bed and resting his chin in one hand, swirling his drink round in the other. “You know, Ginny gets that way with me all the time—sarcastic. But it’s actually rather funny when you do it.”

“Spare me.”

“Want something to drink? I could sort of pour it over you, I suppose.”

“That’s typical; you’re trying to warp me, aren’t you?”

“Too late,” Harry replied. He took a swig from his glass. “I always wanted to do this.”

“What, have a pyjama party with your dead professor in a box?”

“My Snape-in-the-box?”

“Potter! I told you not to call me that! You know, every time I think I’ve lost every last shred of dignity . . .”

“Yeah, it’s a shame, isn’t it?” Harry replied with cavalier good humour. “No, I meant I always wanted to talk to you. Just to talk. Ask you questions and all that.”

“I know I’m going to regret this, but what sort of questions?”

“You had a mad crush on my mum, didn’t you?”

Snape sighed heavily.

“You _luuuuuuurved_ her, didn’t you?” Harry sang. “You wanted to snog her and marry her and—”

“Do you _really_ want the finer details of the physical acts which I would have enjoyed visiting upon your mother?” Snape asked dryly.

Harry grimaced. “Oh! Didn’t think about that—no—no, thanks—keep the details to yourself. Ew.”

They sat in silence for a few long moments, Harry drinking pensively and Snape sitting on the glossy surface of Harry’s chest of drawers. There was a fire burning low in the grate and it warmed Harry right to his toes.

After a while, Snape ventured, “Was that the extent of your desperate desire for my lost wisdom?”

“Pretty much.”

Snape sighed again. “Miss Weasley, I must venture to point out, always seemed to have the same love for you I once held for your mother.”

“Thanks, that’s comforting. Glad I got rid of her then.”

“What do you mean?”

“I think there’s a difference between actually liking someone and being a complete freak who wants to—you know—possess them. It wasn’t healthy. Not for you, and not for Ginny.”

“I still think she loves you, and it hardly seems fair that you shunt her aside for not meeting your standards of emotional maturity.”

“And how do you know she loves me?”

“She never mentioned it to you?”

“Well, sure, but so what? So what if she says she loves me? She could say the moon was made of Crumple-Horned Snorkacks, but that doesn’t make it so.”

“Be still my beating . . . er. Anyway, the point stands. Is it true? Has Harry Potter, of all people, developed _critical thinking skills_? ‘I am amazed, and know not what to say.’”

“Which never stopped you before,” Harry pointed out sourly.

“And can you do addition and subtraction, or is this newly-honed intellect home only to the utterly useless subject of philosophy?”

“I even know a bit of Arithmancy, and other skills include being able to fit three Snitches in my mouth at once. How about that, eh? Impressed?” Harry asked, wiggling his eyebrows. “Course, I nearly swallowed one and Hermione had to Summon it to keep me from choking, but up until then it was a great party gag.”

“You know, you might try being serious for a moment. Actually brainstorming ways of getting me back to normal,” Snape suggested.

“Right, right. What if I cut you open and put the box inside? Think that’d help?”

“I don’t believe that would appreciably improve matters, no,” Snape told him.

“Sorry. I’m afraid I’m just not very good at that type of thing,” Harry confessed. “If you want me to go running into a burning building or wave a sword over my head screaming, then I’m your man. Research was always more Hermione’s area.”

“Then let’s hope Miss Granger comes up with something useful.”

“It’s Weasley now, mate,” Harry informed him.

“Ah. That explains rather a lot.”

“Like what?”

“Like why, despite your homosexual tendencies, you felt the need to solidify your position in the family. You were looking for legitimacy, obviously.”

“Just who are you calling illegitimate?” Harry demanded. “Anyway . . . that’s not it. I mean, maybe it was, but—I thought it was true love. What did I know? She was always there, waiting for me, when I got back from whatever adventure I’d been on. Just waiting, just for me. To have someone like that . . . seemed like it would be kind of nice.”

“Please don’t make me vomit. I’m not sure there’s room in here for it, for starters.”

“It’d be a neat trick without a stomach anyway,” Harry pointed out. “And besides, where do you get off, you old sap? _Look at me_ . . . I didn’t even know what you were talking about, and I just about swooned on the spot. You’re nothing but a closet romantic.”

Snape didn’t respond, but Harry noticed that his red light was glowing a little more brightly than usual. After a moment he grated, “That is taking the remark _entirely_ beyond spoken intent.”

“What do you mean?” Harry asked, puzzled.

“You do know eye-contact is essential to Legilimency, don’t you? I could have sworn I mentioned it.”

“Rubbish,” Harry declared. “You’re just being evasive. You wanted the pleasure of gazing into my beautiful green eyes one more time.”

“I can’t tell you how relieved I am to know your unmatched arrogance proceeds unhindered.”

“Glad it’s a load off your mind,” Harry retorted, utterly unperturbed.

“There was once a time you would have risen to that like a fish to a lure,” Snape observed. “Am I losing my touch, or have you genuinely matured?”

Harry shrugged. “I’m no great judge of my own maturity,” he answered. “But I’d say I’m pretty much all grown up now.”

“So you are.” Snape’s light gleamed.

Harry tilted his head, but before he could say anything there was a knock on his bedroom door. “Yeah?”

“Dad? Are you talking to nargles again?”

“Oh, you have to talk to nargles,” Harry said. “Intelligent conversation is a must for raising them. Otherwise their, er, synapses rot.”

“Oh, _dad_.” The door opened and a scruffy head popped in.

Harry grinned, the warmth of the firewhisky humming in his veins. “Say, you know what? Come ‘ere, Al. I got someone I want you to meet.” He jumped to his feet and ran over to snatch Snape up. “Hey, Snape,” he whispered, cupping the box and holding it close to his mouth. “Want to meet your namesake?”

“Absolutely not!” Snape hissed back.

“Aw, come on. It’ll be great!”

Snape didn’t reply.

“Look here, Albus Severus,” Harry proclaimed, spinning and holding the box aloft. “This is the man you were named after. One of them, anyway. In’t he great?”

Albus Severus arched a brow. “Dad, are you feeling all right? I know you’ve been a bit on the skids since you and mum split up. . .”

“Oh, no. It’s nothing like that,” Harry insisted. “This here is Severus Snape. Go on, Snape. Say a few words. Come on. Give us a treat.”

Snape remained stubbornly silent.

“Come _on_ ,” Harry cajoled. “He’s just being contrary,” he assured his sceptical son. “He’s like that. Does it all the time. Go on, Snape. The rain in Spain is Snapely on the plain, eh? Aw, why do you always have to be like this?”

“Dad, I am _seriously_ considering carting you off to St. Mungo’s.”

“Don’t make me look stupid in front of my kid,” Harry grumbled. He jostled the box, then knocked a fist against it a few times. “Damn it, you old bastard! Say something!” He shook the box harder, then raised his hand as if to throw the thing against the wall.

A small hand covered his, and Harry looked down to see Albus Severus on his tiptoes. “Here, Dad; give me the mean old box and I’ll set it right, eh?”

“Al, please don’t humour me like I’ve gone daft.”

“Right, right. How would you prefer me to deal with you? Talk down like you’re just stupid?”

“Say, there’s no call to go talking to me like that!”

“Dad, you’re talking to a box and insisting it’s really a dead martyr. I think I should pretty much have carte blanche to talk to you any way I please.”

“Carte blanche, eh? They _do_ teach you something at Hogwarts, don’t they?”

“Yes, and they also teach us to be very careful around magical devices, which this box thing seems to be.”

“Nah, I’d say it’s Muggle,” Harry countered. “It’s got lights and everything.”

“Yes, and a dead Potions master and spy inside. It’s a very nice box, Dad. Can I have it for just a second?”

“No! You’ll only go trying to blow it up thinking it’s taken over my brain or something.”

“Well, yes. That was the general plan. Pity you caught on so fast. What are you going to do with it?”

“I’m bringing it along to . . . Hermione tomorrow to have a look,” Harry said, thinking quickly. If Snape refused to show himself, it would hardly help to go bringing Draco Malfoy into things, would it? And Hermione sounded good. Very credible, Hermione.

“Well . . .” Al said, looking at the small cube with great reluctance. “I reckon she’ll spot right off that something’s amiss and have you right as rain in no time. I don’t suppose it’d hurt to let you keep it overnight, and I don’t think I’m up to duelling you for it.”

“I should say not!” Harry replied, deeply offended. “You’ll never beat your old man in a duel! Not in a thousand years!”

Albus Severus rolled his eyes. “Yeah, you just keep telling yourself that and polishing up your old Quidditch trophies. Anyway, what are you going to do with that thing for tonight?”

“I was going to drop him in a glass of firewhisky until he pickled,” Harry replied. “That ought to loosen his tongue a bit. Bloody-minded bugger that he is.”

“Okay,” Al sighed. “But before you go tomorrow I’m pinning a note to the front of your robes for Aunt Hermione. If she can’t straighten you out, I suppose nothing can.”

 

OoOoOoOoO

“Thank you _so_ much,” Harry said when Albus Severus had finally been reassured and sent off to bed. “Now my own son thinks I’m mad.”

“I think he rather fancies you’re an idiot, and he’s not far off the mark,” Snape replied testily. “I can’t go revealing myself to every brat who knocks on your door!”

“Why not?”

“He already thought I might be some kind of dark device!” Snape shot back. “And . . . he may be right,” he added pensively. “He’s your son. What would you have done to a suspected dark device at his age?”

“Probably destroyed it,” Harry conceded with a sigh.

“Yes. And even if he didn’t try it himself, his granddad would likely panic and have me turned inside out.”

“I hadn’t thought of that. But he’s a good kid; you should have given him a chance.”

“Potter, you’re sloshed out of your mind, what little there is of it.”

“You should join me!” Harry went to the chest of drawers and conjured a bowl, pouring a healthy—or rather very _unhealthy_ —amount of firewhisky in it. “What are you doing?” Snape demanded.

“Just a splash,” Harry insisted, and dropped the box in.

Snape shouted. “Potter! Your son was _right!_ You’ve gone completely insane!”

“Try and tell me that doesn’t feel good,” Harry replied.

Grumbling, Snape sat there in the pool of liquor for several moments. “This is ridiculous,” he complained. “And I’ve never missed having independent locomotion more in my li . . . existence.”

“Feels good, doesn’t it?” Harry asked drowsily. He leant on the chest of drawers, dipping his finger in the firewhisky and swirling it round, creating little eddies in the amber liquid.

“It . . . does at that,” Snape said slowly. “Do you have any idea how long it’s been since I’ve had a good drink?”

Harry smiled at him. “This is nice,” he said. “I always wanted to do this. Always wanted to share a drink with you.” He reached over and picked up his own glass, raising it high. “To Severus Snape, the bravest man I ever knew,” he said.

“Hmph,” Snape replied, but his light glowed a bit. “You’re pathetically sentimental.”

“Says the man who was so in _lurrrrrve_ with my mum that he practically saved the whole wizarding world because of it,” Harry taunted.

“Piff,” Snape said. “Anyway, you’re hardly one to talk.”

“What do you mean?”

“I see through your transparent attempts at seduction; wild compliments, plying me with alcohol, taking me to your bedroom . . .”

“You think I’m putting the moves on a _box_?” Harry burst out.

“I think you’ve got a bit of a crush of your own,” Snape replied smugly.

“I have _not!_ ”

“Indignation is hardly an effective defence,” Snape purred, and Harry shivered. “Please. Naming your son after me? Coming to visit and cry bereft tears over my pristine body twenty years after my death? ”

“I did _not_ cry,” Harry replied. “I didn’t even get misty.”

“Nonetheless. You _want_ me. You _lurrrrve_ me.”

Harry straightened up, suddenly suspicious. “Snape, are you _drunk?_ ”

Snape was quiet a long moment. “After considerable reflection, I do believe I am,” he replied. “Even the _fumes_ are making my head spin. Or whatever it is that’s currently working in place of my head,” he amended.

“Whoops, we’d better get you out, then,” Harry said, pulling him out.

“Oh, _damn_. Will you _look_ at what you’ve done? Now my varnish is peeling,” Snape moaned.

Harry winced. “Oh, shit. I’m really sorry about that,” he said. “I swear I’ll have you patched up. Maybe I can find some sort of hobby shop or touch you up with a bit of paint.” Harry smoothed his fingers over the bubbled varnish.

“Stop that,” Snape commanded.

“I’m only trying to help!”

“Stop it, I say!”

“What on earth is the matter with you?”

“Potter! That _tickles!_ ” Snape finally roared.

Harry started to laugh, and once he got going, he couldn’t seem to stop. He carried Snape over to the bed and sat, dropping the box lightly on his pillow.

Snape’s light faded in and out drunkenly, and Harry fell over onto his side, still sniggering. “You are still an unmitigated twit,” Snape complained.

In between blurts of laughter, Harry reached out and touched the small black box. “Takes one to know one,” he replied. He ran a gentle, careful finger over a corner. “Does it hurt? The blistering, I mean.”

“It feels a bit like a sunburn,” Snape replied.

“I really am sorry.” Harry’s finger continued to explore, sliding over the glossy top.

“Potter . . .”

“Do you want me to stop?” Harry whispered.

Snape said nothing, but the box shivered a little.

Harry sat up. “Did you just _vibrate?_ ” he demanded.

“Er . . .”

Harry picked Snape up, cupping him in his hands and smiling broadly. “ _Excellent_.”

 

oOoOoOo

“Oh, _no_ ,” Harry breathed as he carried Snape toward the front door of Malfoy Manor. “What’s _he_ doing here?”

“Who? What?” Snape said irritably, his light a persistent red glow, almost as though it had gone bloodshot.

“Ron. I mean, I don’t fancy having him in the same room with Draco for ten minutes at a time. There’s sure to be a blow-up.”

“Tremendous,” Snape replied sourly. “Could you not _jostle_ me so? I have a raging headache.”

“A box-ache, you mean?” Harry said. “Don’t know what you’ve even got in there to ache.”

“I’d have said the same thing before you happened along and found me,” Snape told him. “And now look. If there’s something capable of aching, you’re the man for the job.”

“Didn’t hear you complaining last night,” Harry said in an undertone. “No, then it was all, ‘ _Ohhhh,_ Potter! Rub my lacquer harder, Potter!”

“You were doing no small amount of moaning yourself,” Snape pointed out.

“Yes, well, it’s all fun and games until somebody gets a splinter,” Harry said glumly. “Thank God for magic. I wouldn’t fancy going into a Muggle hospital and trying to explain that one. ‘You see, my magic box and I were enjoying a bit of frottage and—’”

“It wouldn’t have happened if you were a Muggle, because typically Muggles don’t engage in frottage with magic boxes. Then again, neither do most wizards. Only the most abnormal—”

“Harry, is it true? Is it Snape?”

Harry gave Ron a tired smile and held the box up. Ron gave it a poke.

“Twenty points from Gryffindor, Mr. Weasley,” Snape said crossly.

“Bloody hell! It is Snape! Unless . . . my Da says there are Muggle things like recordings?”

“Nope, it’s the real deal,” Harry assured him.

“Harry, you look _awful_ ,” Hermione said. “Your hair is a _mess._ And what’s this stuck to the front of your robes?”

Harry blushed brightly as Hermione reached out and unstuck the charmed bit of parchment. “Er . . . ”

Hermione unfolded the paper, cleared her throat and read, “ _Dear Auntie, Dad’s gone mad. He thinks his box can talk. I tried to take it away, but you know Dad when he gets something in his head. To tell you the truth, he’s been a bit off since Mum left. Can you fix him?  
Albus Severus_

_P.S. It’s okay if you can’t. I talked it over with James and Lily and we reckon we’d like to have him back anyway, even if he’s gone daft.”_

Harry sighed. “We had a bit of a mess last night.”

“Did you tell Albus Severus about Snape?”

“He made the attempt,” Snape interjected, “but I remained mute.”

“Thank God one of you has some sense.”

“What the devil are you people doing milling about my front porch?” a drawling voice demanded, and the group looked up to see Draco standing at the front door. “Christmas carolling in early September?”

“Recognise this?” Harry replied, tossing Draco the box.

“Snape!” Draco said, sounding surprised. “But what are you doing with him?”

“Trying to get him back into his body. Which is what you should have been doing,” Harry pointed out. “Rather than leaving him there to rot.”

Draco frowned. “I think you’d better come in.”

 

OoOoOoOoO

Draco sat on a plush velvet sofa, drink in hand. “I tried everything I could think of,” he said. “But nothing worked, and whenever I tried to take him away from his body he sort of . . . shut down. I showed him to my wife, but he didn’t make a noise. I thought I was going _mad_.”

“So did I!” Harry said. “I mean, there I am in a _crypt_ , for heaven’s sake, and Snape’s voice comes out of _nowhere_ , and I just about pissed my pants!”

“Good to know,” Draco replied with such cool reservation that Snape seemed to brighten a little at the effectiveness of the scorn.

Harry huffed in annoyance.

“Why don’t we whittle the box down until it’s sharp and then pound it into his chest like a stake?” Ron suggested hopefully. “Works for vampires.”

“It works for _killing_ vampires,” Hermione pointed out.

“Yeah, right. Anyway, it couldn’t hurt to try.”

“No one is pounding _anything_ into the Potions master’s heart,” Draco said firmly.

“Providing we could find it,” Harry muttered.

“I see,” Snape said. “Now I know which of you rushes to defend me when the issue of stake-insertion arises. I’ll remember that, Potter.”

Draco looked smug.

“How did this start?” Hermione asked. “I mean . . . how did Snape come to be in the box?”

“I put him there,” Draco volunteered. “Dumbledore wanted me to.”

Harry blinked. “When?”

“Well, I think he did, anyway. I mean . . . look, it was right after the battle, you follow? And things were a bit crazy; people were running everywhere, there were bodies here and there, walking wounded—you remember, you were there.”

They nodded solemnly, no one bringing up the fact that Draco had been fighting for Voldemort, or, for that matter, the fact that he was extraordinarily useless at it.

“My parents had both thrown themselves on me and sobbed, and it was all . . . a bit much. I mean, everything was in shambles, I’d just lost one of my best friends, and I hardly knew what was going to happen to me. So I just kind of slipped away. I saw this red bird, and it reminded me a bit of Fawkes, and that put me in mind of the headmaster, so I decided to walk down to the white tomb. No one else was there; everyone was occupied with more recent deaths. Anyway, it was a bit of a mess there. It was as though someone had come in and really set about the place, you know?”

Harry nodded, remembering his vision of Voldemort visiting the tomb.

“It sort of freaked me out a bit. I don’t know why. But at any rate, there he was, Dumbledore, dead and exposed, his wrappings half ripped off. I started to feel panicked—like he was staring at me—so I started folding the wrappings back over him, trying to cover him up.”

“Trying to cover his eyes, so he wouldn’t see you,” Snape said quietly.

Draco didn’t answer. “But anyway, the wrappings were all torn away from his face and chest, and I tucked them back in—tucked _him_ back in—and then I saw this flash of red from the corner of my eye. I looked down and there was the box, tucked in by his feet. I didn’t know what it was, but I was curious, so I picked it up. I began to turn it over in my hands, and I thought I heard someone coming, so I left. And as I walked, I noticed the light faded in and out. It sort of seemed to be brighter and steadier when I walked a certain direction, so I kept going that way. I didn’t think much about it.”

“And where did you end up going?” Hermione asked.

“To the Shrieking Shack,” Draco said. “It was open, and I went in and found—Professor Snape’s body. He didn’t look as though he’d been gone for very long, so I put the Stasis Spell on him, and I sat down by his body and . . .” Draco scowled and Harry realized Draco was starting to tear up. “And then I saw—I don’t know what I saw. Something came out of Snape’s mouth—like he was breathing light. I leapt to my feet and backed away, and a glowing blue orb surrounded by shimmering mist floated up and over to the box, which had opened. I couldn’t see inside—it wasn’t facing me and I didn’t dare touch it—but after the orb went in, it snapped shut.”

“Really?” Hermione looked pensive.

“Yes. Then I went back over and looked at the box and it seemed perfectly normal, so I went back to Snape and forced some antivenin into him, just in case. Afterwards I . . .”

“Sat down and cried like a little girl for a quarter of an hour. It was incredibly tedious,” Snape put in contemptuously. “I told him to shut the hell up and asked him what had happened, but he shrieked and threw me and ran off.”

“I came right back!” Draco protested. “You’d be a bit unnerved yourself, if one moment you were sitting beside your dead professor’s body and the next moment his disembodied voice accused you of being closely related to the rodent genus, demanded you grew a fucking backbone and cease your blasted blubbering, and ordered you to get to your feet and explain yourself and the situation. Really, you’re lucky I didn’t incinerate you on the spot.”

“Does knowing any of this do us any good?” Ron put in suddenly. “I mean, it doesn’t exactly help us figure out where to go next.”

“But it does tell us that the box was probably created by Dumbledore,” Hermione pointed out. “And that doesn’t surprise me a bit. Like I told Harry, the box was obviously crafted by someone very powerful.”

“And it’s got Snape’s soul inside it,” Harry whispered.

Hermione and Ron both looked at him, concerned. “Harry, that doesn’t make this a Horcrux,” Hermione said.

“What else could it be? It’s a piece of his soul. His _soul_. It’s just like when the dementors came for Sirius; I saw them sucking his soul right out of his body, and it looked just like that! A blue orb of light surrounded by glowing mist!”

Hermione and Ron glanced at each other, and Harry leapt to his feet.

“You don’t believe me?” he shouted.

“I believe you,” Draco said quietly, stopping Harry short. Draco looked at the box. “But his soul was _whole_ , Potter. It was a perfect sphere. No shards or splinters or bits.”

Harry looked at him steadily.

“So you can wipe the idea of having to destroy another Horcrux right out of your mind,” Draco added, his expression determined. “Because he isn’t one. It wasn’t just a piece of his soul—it was the entire thing.”

Harry let out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding and sat down, his knees feeling as though he’d been hit with a Jelly-legs Jinx. “Good,” he muttered. “Good. Glad to hear it.”

“Fantastic. So _what do we do?_ ” Ron demanded. “Do we pry open the box and try to sort of pour him back into his body?”

“I don’t think the box can be opened by any normal means,” Hermione said. “After all, the soul is pretty delicate without a body to protect it. Dumbledore would have done his best to safeguard it.”

“Would he, now?” Snape murmured.

“You don’t agree?” Hermione said, surprised.

“It isn’t that I disagree, it’s merely . . . unexpected,” Snape responded.

“Anyway, Snape doesn’t want to go back in his body,” Draco put forth.

“The hell I don’t!”

“You certainly haven’t been very cooperative whenever I tried!” Draco said hotly. “I couldn’t find any way to get you back in. Plus, once a body’s been parted from the soul, it’s nearly impossible to join them again.”

“That’s true,” Hermione noted reluctantly.

“So what happens if we can’t get him into his body?” Harry asked, feeling anxious. “We can’t leave him this way!”

“I could grow a homunculus,” Draco offered.

“Those are sexless,” Snape complained.

“How, exactly, would that be different from your usual existence, then?” Harry asked.

“I could animate a mannequin,” Hermione said.

“Oh, and that’s _so_ much better and less sexless than a homunculus,” Draco retorted.

“We could give it up as a bad job and go home to dinner,” Ron suggested.

Everyone frowned at him, except Snape, who used his little red light to glare at him.

“We . . . could put him in a _living_ body,” Draco said slowly. “Just pick a random wizard and pop him in, you know?”

“And what would happen to the random wizard?” Hermione demanded.

Draco shrugged eloquently.

“I say we stick him in with Draco,” Harry suggested with relish. “Make ‘em share.”

Snape’s box vibrated in something akin to a shudder.

“We still don’t know how to get Snape _out_ of the box, so the point is kind of moot,” Ron said, sounding disgruntled.

“May I see the box again?” Hermione asked, and Harry handed it over. She peered closely at it, frowning. “Harry, what _have_ you been doing to Snape?”

Harry knew he was turning beet red. “Nothing!” he insisted, gulping a little. He heard a snort from Snape’s direction. “Nothing _illicit_ anyway,” Harry amended. “I mean, two consenting adults, or one consenting adult and one consenting wooden box—that’s of age!” he added hurriedly.

“Oh, my God. Potter, you are so _completely_ vile,” Draco said. “You’re _getting it on_ with a _wooden box?_ What the hell is the matter with you? Do you really get randy at the sight of cubes? Do geometric shapes make you hot in the pants?”

“Belt up, Draco! Anyway, it wasn’t just _me._ Snape was every bit as into it as I was.”

Ron had his hands over his ears and was humming loudly.

“Will you all please be quiet!” Hermione snapped, exasperated. “Look, something’s _changed_ , Harry. Before when you gave me the box, it was all smooth and polished. Now the surface is different; it’s as though the paint’s peeling off, and underneath, the wood is porous. No wonder it’s so light.”

“Oh, _that_ ,” Harry said with some relief. “No, that wasn’t from wanking. That was from the alcohol.”

“Potter, you got a wooden box drunk and _then_ took advantage of it? You do realize he couldn’t have done much to fend you off even if you hadn’t plied him with wine? Did you bring the thing roses and recite poetry to it, as well? Carry it on a long walk on the beach?”

“Draco, if you don’t shut up I’m going to meld your fucking _teeth_ together,” Harry snarled.

“Boys?” Hermione said in a shrill voice that instantly froze Harry’s blood. It had been a very long time since he’d heard her sound that frightened.

“What is it?” he asked, coming over.

“I think we’d better figure out how to get Snape back in his body.”

“That’s exactly what we’ve been doing,” Ron pointed out. “That and arguing, which is less productive but more cathartic. Why are you suddenly so impatient about it, anyway?”

“Because,” Hermione said, holding the box up, and Harry could see a deep, dark crack scoring the surface, “I think we’re running out of time.”

 

OoOoOoOoO

“Merlin’s mother!” Draco swore. “Put him on a coaster or something, for God’s sake! This rug is nearly five hundred years old! What would my mum say if she found out you leaked Snape all over it?”

“Draco, do you have a library?” Hermione asked.

He gave her an affronted look. “I have bronze busts of famous wizards that carry on conversations. I have a collection of art by Perdita Picasso, Pablo Picasso’s forgotten younger sister. She drew a marvellous set of representations of unicorns. Sadly, she used only white paint so you can’t really see the genius, but it’s there. For my son’s last birthday, I bought him a fish trained to ride a bicycle. Of _course_ I have a library.”

“With lots of texts on dodgy magic and death and whatnot?”

Draco made a _did-you-forget-who-I-was?_ gesture.

“Take me there.”

“But I’ve already been all through—”

“ _Now,_ ” Hermione said in a voice that brooked no argument.

“You get the books, I’ll pour myself a drink or two,” Ron said, heading for the liquor cabinet.

“Give me that,” Harry said, lunging and snatching the box away from Hermione as she passed. He ran suddenly trembling fingers over the surface. “She’s right,” he whispered. “It must have been the firewhisky. I’m so sorry.”

“Harry, _please_ tell me you’re not going to blub over Snape,” Ron begged. “Really, first you leave my sister, then you tell me you think you’re queer, and now you’re falling in love with a wooden box. And each time I’ve asked myself; should I step in? Should I say something? I kept thinking no, no, Harry’s got to be his own man. You’ve been shoring him up for far too long. Needs to make his own mistakes. But now I’m starting to wonder . . .”

“Oh, belt up. I’m not in love with a wooden box. I—like _Snape_. I know, that sounds even more unhealthy. But really, he has a ridiculously sexy voice, and he’s clever and brave and has this wonderful, dry sense of humour and—I really do like him.” Harry looked from Ron back down to the box. “I really do,” he muttered. “And I’m not going to lose you again.”

“Hmph,” Snape responded cynically.

“You don’t believe me?” Harry said, just a little crestfallen.

“I have such a warm and fuzzy history when it comes to other people taking care of my needs,” Snape pointed out.

Harry frowned. “Yes, well, not any more,” he said in a brisk voice. “This time, you’ve got me. For what it’s worth.”

Snape was silent a moment. “Considering what you’ve been willing to sacrifice in the past, I suppose having you on my side is worth a great deal indeed,” he eventually acknowledged.

Harry grinned and patted Snape’s top. “There you go, then. Ron? Are you all right?”

Ron rolled his eyes. “I’m on m’third glass of . . . whatever this is,” he said, peering closely at the bottle. “I’m swell.”

Harry sighed. “Hermione’s going to be, er, displeased,” he pointed out.

“Hermione can stuff it,” Ron replied with a scowl. He pushed his fringe out of his eyes and took another swig of liquor straight from the bottle. “I don’t see why you don’t just ask Dumbledore what he did, anyway. I mean, since he seems to have been behind it.”

“Unless Potter is willing to dabble in necromancy and risk his soul, I doubt it’s a good idea,” Snape pointed out. “In case you’d forgotten, the man is dead.”

“Psh,” Ron replied. “I didn’t mean you had to go poke _him_ and try to wake him up. Why not just ask his portrait?”

Harry’s head snapped up. “His portrait?” he repeated in a stunned voice.

“Yeah; he’s got one, right? His portrait might have a clue.”

“Ron, that’s _brilliant!_ ” Harry shouted.

“You needn’t be so loud,” Ron said testily. “You’re making my head hurt.”

Harry leapt to his feet and was across the room like a shot.

“Wait!” Ron yelled. “What about the rest of us?”

Harry paused at the doorway. “Tell Draco and Hermione to keep looking. If Dumbledore doesn’t remember anything or can’t help, we’ll only have wasted time we can’t afford. I’ll tell you guys what I find out, all right?”

Before Ron could do more than nod, Harry and Snape were gone.

 

OoOoOoOoO

“Don’t drop me,” Snape warned after Harry had summoned his broom and kicked off.

“I won’t,” Harry swore.

“And try not to jostle me too much,” the man added in a grumpy voice.

Harry conjured a silk scarf and carefully wound it around the box and tucked the thing away. “I’ll be gentle,” Harry told him.

“Weasley’s right; you’re thoroughly infatuated with me,” Snape complained.

“You love every moment,” Harry told him as he shot through the sky, the invigorating autumn air filling Harry’s lungs.

“I certainly don’t,” Snape disputed. “I find it perfectly revolting, having someone waiting on me hand and foot. Completely devoted to me; a slave to my every whim.”

Harry laughed. “Yes, it’s a real trial for you, I know. Try to bear with it, would you?”

“I’ll try,” Snape said gravely. “I suppose at least it will be easy to shop for you at Christmas. I’ll just get myself some gaudy wrapping paper and let you rip it all off.”

Harry smiled, the sun bright in his face. “You’d look good with a jaunty red bow,” he said.

“Compliments will get you everywhere.”

“Including inside?”

“The way things are going, my insides will leak out anyway, so why worry about it?” Snape replied.

Harry’s smile slipped. “Don’t say that.”

“It couldn’t last forever. I’ve been stuck in this box twenty years. It might actually be a mercy.”

“Don’t _say_ that,” Harry repeated fiercely.

Snape fell quiet, but they both knew that talking about it wouldn’t stop it. “You’d do better to find someone your own age,” Snape eventually said in a morose tone. “Someone you have more in common with. Like arms and legs. Actual sex organs, even. I can’t tell you how sexually frustrating it is to have nothing to work with.”

“I know,” Harry said comfortingly. “But we’ll sort it out. If we could even drill a hole—”

“Don’t even _think_ about it,” Snape told him. “Anyway, I’m the dominant male. Don’t forget that.”

“Makes you sound like an ape,” Harry remarked.

“Then I’d be fully compatible with a cheeky monkey such as yourself, wouldn’t I? And anyway, at least apes have arms and legs and things. Bit hairy, though.”

“But then again, aren’t we all?” Harry quipped.

“Weak, Potter, very weak. I’d give anything to be able to give you a good ding round the ear right now. Good grief, you never notice how marvellous your appendages are until you can’t thrash anyone with them.”

“Don’t keep _on_ about it,” Harry scolded. “Look, there’s the castle.”

“Oh, yes, lovely sight. Wait, that’s your _armpit_ ,” Snape said sourly.

“Well, I’m sorry, but you didn’t want me to drop you.”

 

OoOoOoOoO

“I need to see the headmaster!”

“It’s headmistress now,” Hagrid reminded Harry, looking taken aback. “Remember? Headmistress Lovegood; she oughta be about—”

“No—yes—I know it’s Luna, but it’s not her I need to see,” Harry gasped, wheezing for breath. “Blimey, I’m getting old.”

“I know what yeh mean,” said Hagrid, running a hand through his wild, greying hair. “Time was I could keep up with the little terrors—las’ time yer James went into the woods, I barely caught him before he’d run headlong into a centaur.”

Harry shrugged. “He does that at home too—headlong into everything,” he said apologetically. “Last time I invited a bloke over—well, you don’t want to know. But anyway, I have to talk to Dumbledore.”

He ran, nearly bowling Luna over as he reached the stairs. “Password to the office?” he called out as he disentangled himself and jogged away.

“It’s not a password,” Luna replied, perfectly serene. “You have to do a bit of soft shoe.”

Harry paused to pull a disbelieving face at the woman. “You _what?_ ”

“Keeps out the Inferi,” she said sombrely. “Everyone knows Inferi can’t dance.”

Breathlessly, Harry nodded and took off again. “Right, right. Everyone knows that.”

He doubled over outside the headmistress’ door, breathing heavily. “Right, we made it.” He could feel his heart racing in his chest. What if Snape sort of dripped out before Harry could get him fixed?

“Come to take over the school, young Mr. Potter?” a suspicious voice inquired, and Harry looked up to see Filch, now ancient looking, leaning on a cane and squinting at him.

“Oh, why not?” Harry replied flippantly. “Lovely day for it.”

“The school won’t like that,” Filch replied. “Doesn’t like traitors. Doesn’t like those that turn on their masters. Like that Snape—it never did grant him a portrait, did it? ‘Cause it knew what he’d done to Albus Dumbledore! Knew what a villain he was!”

“Knew he wasn’t _dead_ ,” Harry retorted. “And I wish someone’d thought to tell me that. I might have figured things out much sooner.”

“Fat chance,” Snape interjected wryly.

Filch goggled.

Harry ignored him, turning to the gargoyle guarding the door to the headmistress’ office. “Let me in,” he begged.

It turned its head away, nose in the air.

“Oh, come _on_ ,” Harry said. “I’m _tired_. You won’t _really_ make me, will you?”

With a fine air of scorn, the gargoyle began cleaning its fingernails—or claws—or pretending to, at any rate.

Taking a deep breath, Harry began kicking his legs in a clumsy sort of can-can. The gargoyle raised a brow and Harry scowled. “Look, I can’t _do_ any better!” he insisted.

“Kick higher,” Snape suggested, his voice thick with amusement.

“Oh, shut up,” Harry said.

Grudgingly, the gargoyle stepped aside and Harry ran forward.

“Dumbledore!” he shouted, flinging himself into the room and yanking Snape out.

The former headmaster looked up, surprised. There was a strange woman visiting his frame and she gave Harry a dirty look, as though he’d been interrupting something. She looked vaguely familiar, but Harry couldn’t place her.

“Harry!” Dumbledore exclaimed, looking delighted. “Come in! I’m sorry, Madam Gioconda, but we’ll have to finish this some other time. You’ve made wonderful progress.”

The woman left in a huff, and Dumbledore made a helpless gesture.

“Who was that?” Harry demanded.

“You’ve never met her? Harry, you really should further your education. Imagine never visiting the Louvre!”

“Huh?”

“That was the Mona Lisa,” Snape explained.

“I’m teaching her to make her smile more mysterious,” Dumbledore told them. “I simply can’t get her to _twinkle_ enough, though.”

“I need to get Snape back in his body!” Harry interjected. “Right now! How do I do it?”

Dumbledore raised his eyebrows. “It’s very easy. You simply put him back in. I knew either you or Mr. Malfoy could probably do it, and I didn’t want to make it too much of a challenge.”

“Yes, but it _is_ ,” Harry insisted. “Draco’s been trying for years and hasn’t managed it!”

“Oh, dear. Severus, you simply can’t allow yourself to trust anyone, can you? Even after all this time?”

“What’s that got to do with anything?” Harry asked as Snape’s red light flared. “Can’t you just tell me how to open the top?”

“That won’t be enough to get him back in his body,” Dumbledore explained. “You _can_ open the box, though it’s both hermetically and magnetically sealed. I needed to be certain Tom could not destroy it, so I used a blend of magic and technology.”

“I thought the two couldn’t be mixed,” Snape remarked. “Isn’t that what everyone says?”

“Yes, and now you see the advantage of ignoring the metaphorical _everyone_ ,” Dumbledore told him. “You really never know until you try. So I did my best to create a vessel that Voldemort would find indestructible. It takes both a spell and a screwdriver to open the box.”

“A _screwdriver?_ ” Harry repeated.

“A magnetically charged screwdriver, yes,” Dumbledore said. “You simply can’t see the screws until you remove the concealing charm.”

“That’s all it takes to open it?” Harry asked, feeling as though he must have misunderstood.

“I don’t think Tom ever would have thought to use a screwdriver,” Dumbledore pointed out. “It would be more in his nature to attempt to destroy the box. Which can’t be done, of course,” he added, trying to look modest. “I am rather clever at times, you know.”

“And rather insane at others,” Snape broke in. “What the hell is clever about locking me up in a little black box for twenty years?” he demanded. “What was the point of it?”

Dumbledore raised his brows. “Why, I was only attempting to rectify a gross oversight.”

“What?”

“Your soul, Severus,” Dumbledore whispered. “Yours. It was only right that I make arrangements for your soul, as well. I hadn’t much time left by then, but I did what I could. Now it’s up to you—and Harry, of course.”

“Me? What the devil am I supposed to do? Not only is it impossible for me to cast spells, I can’t even move,” Snape complained.

“I’m afraid I felt it necessary,” Dumbledore said quietly. “You were an obsessive and emotionally immature man—and with your power and intellect, a dangerous one, at that. In all the years I’ve known you, I’ve never seen you learn to . . . well, to have a _healthy_ relationship.”

“I don’t understand,” Harry said, confused. “What does any of this have to do with putting Snape in a box?”

“There is a way for him to leave it,” Dumbledore said gravely. “But there is also great risk. You can take him into your body, Harry, and then place him back in his own. But he’d have to trust you, you see? And you’d have to trust him. Because once he’s in your body, not only would he have access to all your emotions and memories, but he’d have the opportunity to take you over completely, to swallow you whole. And you’d have the chance to obliterate him as though he never was.”

Harry and Snape were both silent for a time. The other headmasters were silent as well, listening intently in their frames.

“It was not a task to be undertaken lightly. And the box itself, though I gave it all I had, required a great deal more magical energy than I could give it. You see, to keep a magician alive, magic is needed. Snape feeds off the magical energy he encounters whenever other wizards are near. When they leave, he falls into unconsciousness.”

“And that’s what will happen if I leave him?” Harry murmured.

“Unless I leak out the crack,” Snape said with a huff of air.

“Crack?” Dumbledore repeated.

“Potter dropped me in a bowl of firewhisky until my varnish bubbled and my wood began to warp,” Snape explained sourly.

Dumbledore sighed. “I did make the box as indestructible as I could manage, but I’m afraid I did so with Tom Riddle in mind. I should have taken Mr. Potter into account as well.”

“That would be impossible in any case, Albus,” Snape said reassuringly. “No one can plan for contingencies with Potter in mind. Potter is one, great, walking, unexpected contingency. Potter is trouble personified.”

Far from being insulted, Harry beamed and patted the box affectionately. “I like you, too,” he told Snape.

Snape didn’t answer.

Harry didn’t think much of it until his hand began to tingle and he looked more closely; yes, there was a blue mist trickling out from between his fingers. Gulping, Harry looked up at Dumbledore.

“I think you’d better get him back to his body,” the man advised. “And stop by the dungeons for some blood replenishing potion before you do—he’ll need it.”

“Right.” Harry nodded, ran to the door, then ran back, unable to calm down and take decisive action. “Anything else? I mean, what do I do?”

Dumbledore could only make a doubtful gesture. “You absorb him the best you can, like a sponge. Try not to overwhelm him or fight him—just coexist. And then breathe his soul back into his body.”

“Breathe? Like . . . the kiss of life?” Harry said, distracted. “Like Snow White?”

Dumbledore looked amused. “Something like that,” he said. “Good luck!” he added as Harry tore from the room.

 

OoOoOoOoO

“So, uh, ready to give it a try?” Harry asked, his voice sounding thin and uncertain to his own ears.

He strained to hear, but Snape didn’t answer except for a withered little hiss of breath. Harry shuddered. Was Snape dying? He’d forced the blood replenishing potion between the man’s—corpse’s—teeth and shooed Luna off—the woman might be the headmistress, but Harry didn’t have the patience for it right now.

Luckily, ever unruffled, Luna had merely assured Harry that if she ever had to bring someone back from the dead after twenty years, she’d probably need to concentrate as well, and then she’d sort of floated off, closing the crypt door behind her.

“All right,” Harry finally said when he thought he was ready. “I’m going to give it a go. Snape? Snape?”

He could still feel the warmth where Snape’s soul was trickling out, pooling in the cup of his hand. His whole arm had begun to tingle; was that how he was supposed to ‘absorb’ the man—like a sponge? Well, he didn’t have any better ideas, and he’d run out of time for research, so he supposed he’d just do the best he could.

Harry planted his feet and lifted his arms, raising the box high over his head and tilting it so the crack was facing downward. He might as well let gravity do the work.

His hand began to feel warm, then hot, and the heat travelled down his forearm, rushing into his body. Harry flinched; the heat was increasing—it felt like flames licking through his veins. He could see the blue mist swirling around his hand, almost as though he’d plunged it into a bucket of dry ice.

Then he could see something more substantial, a blue orb blocking the crack. Harry waited for a long moment, but nothing more happened. Snape appeared to be stuck.

“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” Harry said, irritated. “Only you could find a way to make this even more difficult.” He lowered his hands and shook the box a little. Nothing happened. Sighing, Harry cupped one hand beneath the box, then tapped the thing, jolting it like a catsup bottle. Finally, after one good thwack, the orb popped free and sank into the palm of Harry’s hand.

Harry clamped his hands together, terrified Snape’s soul would spill to the floor, but the orb had already soaked through into Harry’s hand. Harry could feel it, something foreign and strange, throbbing slightly against the backbeat of his own pulse. He raised his arm again, hoping Snape’s soul would continue its journey down into his body.

“Come on, Snape,” he urged quietly. “You can do it.” He felt it slip down his wrist and looked up to see his skin luminescent and pearly-white, his fingertips streaming light. It shimmered and danced across the ceiling when he wiggled his fingers. “Wicked,” he whispered. “I _love_ magic.”

Then Harry winced. He could feel Snape plunge down into his chest, piercing his heart—a thousand spikes and sparks of agonizing pain shot out like a sunburst. Harry collapsed, seizing up, terrified and wanting only to contain the sudden burning pain, to tamp it down. He could feel his heart stutter; Snape’s heartbeat was there as well, and he couldn’t seem to sort them out. It was too much—Harry couldn’t handle it—it was far too much!

Panicked, Harry tried to muffle the extraneous noise, desperate to hear his own heart, to know he was okay. Snape’s heartbeat sped up, thready and suddenly weak, and Harry remembered what Dumbledore had said—that he had to be careful not to smother the man.

Going against every instinct for survival that screamed out, Harry tried to relax, allowing Snape’s pulse, Snape’s personality, to expand and take hold. Harry forced himself to stay calm as Snape flooded him. Harry breathed evenly, deeply, as Snape welled up, stretching and billowing outward through Harry’s veins, muscles, bones. Harry felt Snape coursing through his arms and legs, sensed him streaming out into his very eyelashes, into the tips of his hair.

Harry felt overflowing with Snape. He tipped his head back, his breath coming in shivery little gasps of pleasure. Snape felt good and strong and right inside of him. Harry suddenly felt clever and sly and strangely desperate to prove himself.

The whole situation suddenly struck him as rather awkward—it was so intimate! He’d never felt this sense of intimacy before. All other clumsy sexual encounters, all other embraces were nothing to this, nothing to feeling a man inside his body and soul, shimmering in his veins and warming him from head to toe.

A droplet of sweat clung to the frame of Harry’s glasses before slipping down onto his cheek. Harry was surprised; he hadn’t realized he’d been exerting himself so much. Still, now he felt _wonderful_ , frothing and sizzling with thick, sweet life and energy. It no longer hurt to have Snape inside him at all—it felt good, warm and exhilarating.

Harry gave a great shudder of pleasure, squeezing his eyes shut as he adjusted to the new intrusion. His hand moved without his permission, rising to caress his cheek in a wondering sort of way.

“Not bad, Potter,” his own voice remarked.

Harry felt a laugh bubble up in his chest, and to his surprise and delight, he found he still had enough control to allow it. “Yeah, isn’t it great?” he whispered.

Snape smiled with Harry’s mouth. He passed a hand over Harry’s hair, smoothed it down the front of his chest. “I could do incredible things right now,” the man purred. “ _We_ could do such— _magnificent_ —things.”

Harry laughed again. “Better not risk it,” he warned.

“Pity. What do we do next?”

Harry turned to Snape’s body, still and solemn on its plinth, though no longer encased in glass. “I put you back.”

“How?”

“Can you concentrate yourself all in one place?”

“I can try.”

“My mouth, then. My throat and my mouth.”

Snape looked down at his body, arching Harry’s brow. “How very romantic of you,” he remarked. “I should very much like to come into your mouth and throat,” he added slyly.

Harry felt his face heating up.

“Potter, are we _blushing?_ ” Snape said with a wicked smile, brushing Harry’s fingertips over his warm cheeks. “How charming.”

“Snape,” Harry grumbled. “We can flirt later!” He felt Snape drain from his fingers and toes, then his outer extremities as the man began condensing himself in Harry’s chest.

Harry found it hard to get air, his breaths coming in great gasps as Snape’s soul squeezed into his chest, filling it, then pouring his way up Harry’s throat. It felt a bit like drinking firewhisky backwards—the burn of alcohol coming in reverse. It actually felt a bit like being sick, and Harry choked a little before Snape slipped out to hover on Harry’s tongue.

“Best work on that gag reflex,” Snape advised with Harry’s mouth. He filled Harry too completely—Harry was trying desperately to suck air past the obstruction of the soul filling his mouth.

Suffocating, Harry threw himself onto Snape’s prone body, trembling hands searching out the man’s face, cupping his chin. Harry couldn’t do this for much longer—it felt as if Snape’s soul was blocking his airway, and Harry was afraid he’d pass out before completing the transfer.

Harry glanced down at that stern, unpleasant face and felt his lips quirk in a smile. He couldn’t wait to see Severus the way he used to be—animated and full of passion and keen intelligence. Harry leant down, brushing his lips over Snape’s. He took as deep a breath as he could manage, then exhaled into Snape’s mouth.

A trickle of mist poured from his lips, floating down into Snape’s body. Harry took another breath, then exhaled again, and again, feeling Snape spilling out of him. His chest became less constricted and he breathed easily again.

Finally, a warm, solid sphere of magical energy passed from Harry’s lips into Snape’s mouth, and Harry could see the man swallow, and all that was left of Snape in Harry’s body was a tingling, bittersweet tickle on the tip of Harry’s tongue.

Harry drew back, panting a little.

Snape’s eyes opened. “Potter, you really need to brush your teeth,” he said in a hoarse, tired voice.

Harry grinned. He leant over and healed the wounds on Snape’s neck. “Good thing I eventually learned how to do that, eh?” he said.

“Yes,” said Snape, his eyes briefly shutting. “So that’s what Dumbledore was waiting for,” he murmured.

“For you to trust,” Harry said. “For you to move on and learn to love someone besides my mum.” Snape looked up and smiled dryly. “Good thing I eventually learned how to do that, eh?” he mimicked.

“It’ll never be like that again, will it? That . . . intimate.”

“That’s no excuse not to try,” Snape told him.

Harry grinned again, feeling tired. “What should I do with this?” he asked, holding up the battered wooden box.

“Incinerate it, for all I care,” Snape replied. He sat up, turning away. Harry could see the uncertainty in his face, the insecurity that Harry had felt simmer inside when Snape was part of him.

“Nah,” Harry said. He turned it over in his hands. “It had some really great stuff inside. Some rotten stuff, too,” he added sneakily, “all the sins of the world, like greed, vanity, slander, envy, pining . . . but wasn’t there something good, too? What was it that was in Pandora’s box again?” he added.

Snape looked at him, his expression unreadable. “Hope,” he mumbled.

Harry smiled. “That’s right, I remember now,” he said. “Something to make all the rest of it bearable.”

Snape shook his head, but Harry could see he was smiling just a little.

“Come on,” Harry told him. “Let’s go tell the others. Besides, I really want you to meet the kids.”

Snape eyed the box as Harry helped him off the plinth. “What are you going to do with the box?” he asked.

“Fix it up,” Harry informed him as they left the crypt. “Then if we’re still seeing each other when it’s repaired, I’ll give it back. I might even put something inside,” he added, glancing down at the thing. If he could get it open, that was. It was a nice little box, really. Just the right size for a small piece of jewellry—maybe a ring or something.

Snape looked away, but Harry could see his normally sallow cheeks were flushed just a bit. “Hope,” the man mumbled again.

“Yeah,” Harry said agreeably. “It’s really all you need. That and something that vibrates. You can’t vibrate anymore, can you?” Harry asked, looking disappointed when the man shook his head.

“No,” Severus replied. “But I have plenty of other skills. One of them may be to your satisfaction.”

Harry offered a cheeky grin and slipped an arm through Snape’s as they walked up the stairs out of the crypt. “I can hope.”


End file.
